


King And Consort

by ladyoneill



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Dark, Demon Dean Winchester, Hell, Hellhounds, M/M, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-09
Updated: 2015-01-09
Packaged: 2018-03-06 14:53:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3138362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyoneill/pseuds/ladyoneill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An AU Season 10, in which Sam doesn't find Dean, and Dean tumbles further and further into darkness, just as Crowley wants him to.  When Dean takes the final step in his damnation, the King of Hell steps in and drags him home and, eventually, into his bed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	King And Consort

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the SPN Reversebang over on Livejournal, where I chose the dark and lovely image by Gryph that inspired this piece. The death referred to in the tags, while a catalyst, is just a random person. The story is dark to a point, but not overly violent or graphic--there's a tiny bit of sex--and I suppose it has a happy ending. Dean and Crowley are pretty happy with their plans at least.
> 
> Also, the beginning and end, delineated by ~~~~~, are set in the future.
> 
>  
> 
> [Art Post on Livejournal](http://gryphon2k.livejournal.com/283305.html)
> 
>  
> 
> [Art Post on AO3](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3141920)

Curled around a pillow, deeply asleep, the man looks deceptively normal. The lines of his face have smoothed out, the shadows beneath his eyes have faded, his muscles are lax.

A little snore echoes from him, making Crowley smirk as he reclines against the intricately carved cherry wood headboard and a pile of painted silk cushions. Lifting a fine crystal glass to his lips, he takes a sip of a truly glorious 1994 Bordeaux, and watches his lover sleep.

Of course neither needs sleep nor wine nor food nor comfort, but, if you're going to live forever, why not do so extravagantly?

So, their rooms in Hell are decorated with the most expensive antiques. The remnants of their meal of lobster thermidor remain on the linen and china bedecked table before the fireplace framed by an Adam mantle with caryatids. Across from the bed, the Mona Lisa smiles benignly.

Dean snores again and rubs his cheek against one thousand count Egyptian cotton covering a swan down filled pillow.

Finishing his wine, Crowley sets the glass down on the night stand that matches the bed and holds the lone illuminated lamp, by Tiffany, before sliding beneath the softest quilt and reaching over to turn off the light.

Sleep sounds good.

After all, they have a busy day ahead of them as their armies make their first move on Heaven.

~~~~~

After telling Crowley to piss off and leaving him behind in that pissant bar, Dean spends the next two weeks drunk, frustrated, and annoyed with everything. He fucks and slaughters his way through Idaho and into northern Utah, driving at night and spending his days between the thighs of barmaids and waitresses in familiar, dumpy motels that reek of stale sex and cigarette smoke.

When booze and babes no longer take the edge off, he hunts, killing those his demon can tell are already doomed to Hell. As the Mark of Cain urges him on, the kills become more and more violent, and he revels in the blood and gore, the agony and terror emanating from his victims.

In Enid, Oklahoma he kills his first innocent, a young woman he hooked up with who found his knives and guns and freaked out. To shut her up, Dean wraps his hands around her neck, pins her to the bed, and squeezes. He just wants to send her unconscious so he can get out of there, but, the scent of her fear floods his senses, and he just keeps squeezing until she goes still and silent.

Slowly Dean comes back to himself and stares down at the dead woman pinned between his knees.

He realizes she's dead at the same time he feels his erection pushing painfully against his zipper.

Something almost like shame fills him, but his cock doesn't soften, only painfully throbs, and Dean closes his eyes and sinks into the need.

When he opens his eyes, they're black and he's spilling over her naked breasts.

"Fuck," he groans, sick at himself, at what he's become, but...there's nothing he can do but run.

*****

Frowning, Crowley stares down at the dead woman, red and purple bruises ringing her neck, semen dried on her slender nudity. One sniff tells him that happened after she was dead, and his frown turns to one of disgust.

King of Hell he might be, but even he has standards, and fucking corpses is well below them.

With an angry noise, he turns to the two minions who he'd set on Dean's trail--the fourth pair as Dean had caught onto the previous three and used his angel sword to kill them. "When did he leave?"

"About two hours ago, sire," one, in the body of a burly trucker replies, shifting nervously and scratching the back of his head. "We can pick up his trail right quick, but we thought..." He looks at his companion, a former school teacher with a bun for fuck's sake.

"This is the first kill of someone not condemned," she continues primly. "We thought you should be informed."

"Good decision. Deal with this. I'll find him."

*****

For nearly twenty-four hours, Dean drives south through Texas into Louisiana, taking mostly deserted back roads, stopping only for gas and to piss. He doesn't sleep or drink or eat and, about twenty hours in, realizes he doesn't need to.

Bleakness fills him, his hands grip the wheel tightly, and he stares down the long stretch of dark road.

He's a demon.

The reality of that finally hits him.

Forty years in Hell broke him. He became a gifted torturer, learned to be brutal, cruel and uncaring, but he didn't become a demon. Nearly there, but not quite, and then rescue and resurrection just before it was too late.

Seven years later, all it took was the Mark of Cain and death to make him something unique. There's no demon inhabiting a body. He is the demon.

In Houma, Louisiana, he uses the last of his money to rent a cheap room for a week and buy a half dozen bottles of rotgut whisky, then holes up and drinks himself into a stupor. If he lets himself, he can still get drunk, still fall unconscious.

So, he does.

*****

Quickly finding Dean, Crowley follows him to a disreputable motel, then puts a guard on him, as he has other matters to which to attend. Hourly checks with the guard inform him that Dean doesn't stir for four days, and on the fifth, Crowley opens the motel room door and flinches from the stench of stale whisky, vomit, and an unwashed body.

"Oh how the mighty have fallen," he chides with a tsking sound, watching as Dean blinks red-rimmed eyes at him from the dirty bed.

"Fuck off," Dean slurs, lifting the last bottle to his lips with a shaky hand. He drains the final sip, then coughs and lets the bottle slip to the floor where it bounces on the stained carpet next to several other empties.

"All this from killing a whore?"

"She...she wasn't," Dean stammers, then rubs his eyes. "Shit, just go away."

"You know, there really isn't that much difference between killing the damned and anyone else. She's still dead."

Dean groans and rolls awkwardly onto his side. "Leave me 'lone."

"To wallow in your own filth? No. I've tolerated your petulance for long enough in the hope you'd outgrow it, but you've just become pathetic."

"Not going to piss me off," Dean mumbles into the coverless, stained pillow.

Frowning in disgust, Crowley snaps, "Get on your feet."

"Fuck off."

"I didn't want to have to go to this extreme, Dean." With a snap of his fingers, the air beside him is displaced and a low growl sounds.

On the bed, Dean freezes, then turns a look of disbelief on him, that rapidly turns to terror. As a demon, he's no longer blind to the supernatural creatures he once couldn't see.

Crowley pets the hell hound rubbing against his thigh, then points to Dean. "Get him, my sweet."

The hound leaps on the bed, straddling Dean, who cowers helplessly in the face of the one thing that truly terrifies him. Crowley is pleased to see, though, that when the hound latches its dripping fangs into his side, Dean doesn't scream or cry or fight.

Another snap of his fingers, and all three disappear.

*****

Dean awakens to a pounding head and a throbbing side. His thoughts are bleary from alcohol; his memories jumbled. Slowly he forces his eyes open to find himself in complete darkness. He tries to move and realizes he's chained to something at the wrists and ankles.

There's metal beneath his back. He's laying on it. 

It's too familiar.

Choking and gasping for air, he tastes the brimstone and smoke, and starts to struggle.

He's on a rack.

In Hell.

Panic overwhelms him, and, despite his demonic strength, he can't get free, no matter how hard he writhes and kicks. The chains rattle. The metal of the rack digs into his spine and hips. The only blessings are that he's still clothed and he's alone.

Finally he stills, quiets, and waits.

Because that's all he can do. He learned a long time ago that begging was pointless.

Slowly, as the alcohol leaves his system, his headache fades. The wound in his side takes much longer to heal. Unable to move, he grows stiff and sore, but he also learned a long time ago how to sink into the suffering.

So, he does that, and he waits. His mind goes dull and his mouth dry. His eyes never adjust to the darkness and there are no sounds but his own heartbeat and harsh breathing.

It takes Dean awhile to realize that he hears them which means...

He's not dead.

He's in Hell and not dead.

Confusion floods him, because this isn't something familiar. He's not just a soul tricked into thinking it has a body.

And finally, after what has to be an eternity, he speaks.

"Crowley?"

*****

On his throne, bored by the sycophants and petitioners, but unwilling to leave Dean in Hell by himself, Crowley hears the whisper of his name, and nearly smiles. A few harsh words empty his throne room and he snaps his fingers to move through infinite space. Torches flare on three of the four walls of the cell and he looks down at the exhausted, beaten man chained to the rack. With a wave of his hand, the rack rises, and Dean groans when his weight shifts to his wrists and shoulders as he's suspended above the floor.

"Dean, Dean, Dean, what am I to do with you."

Dean blinks bloodshot eyes at him, opens and closes his mouth, and slumps. Blood trickles from beneath the wrist cuffs, and his head drops forward.

Stepping closer, Crowley grips his chin and forces his eyes up. They don't meet his.

"You broke, Dean, but that's only right. You have to break in order to be rebuilt stronger, more powerful, more sure of yourself."

"Not...broken," Dean whispers from cracked and bloody lips, and Crowley smiles and pats his grimy cheek.

"Oh, my boy, you are so wrong."

"Took decades the first time. Not there...yet."

"Hell didn't break you. Killing an innocent woman did. On top of all the other killings. You've just bathed your ruined soul in blood, my dear."

Black eyes flash to his, and Crowley smirks. "You're a demon, Dean. Now it's time for you to reach your full potential. No more fighting me. No more going your own way. I own you."

"N--uh..." Dean swallows convulsively and shakes his head, but Crowley can see the indecision. He's on the cusp, but still his stubborn streak insists on rising to the fore. "Call in your torturers. Do your worst."

Laughing, Crowley shakes his head. "You're already a demon, Dean. I don't need to hurt you. I just need to leave you alone with your thoughts, your desires, your shredded, burnt soul." When he doesn't get a response, he feels a bit of frustration. He thought Dean was ready. With a harsh sigh, he turns away.

And is rewarded with a broken, pleading, "No."

Turning back, forcing the smile off his face, Crowley crosses his arms over his chest, waits as Dean struggles with his emotions, and finally sags completely.

"Who do you belong to?"

"...You."

Waving his hand, Crowley banishes the chains, the rack, and Dean falls to the stone floor inscribed with sigils of binding that flare red when Dean's hands touch them. Inside his rotten soul, the King of Hell feels the allegiance of this unique creature lock to him, and he waits to see what Dean will do.

Slowly, panting harshly, the former hunter pushes to his knees. Head bowed, shoulders sagging in defeat, his hands form fists, but Crowley's not worried he'll attack.

Instead, Dean reaches for him, presses those trembling hands to his side, bracketing his own hand. He feels ice cold lips touch the ring, the symbol of his power and position, and he smiles in dark pleasure and gestures towards the one unlit wall.

It fades away, revealing his elegant chambers. The aroma of roast pheasant mingles with that of fresh baked bread and a crackling fire, driving away the brimstone that permeates all of Hell but here.

Slowly Dean lifts his head and his eyes are green again, but empty and dull. Feeling magnanimous--because, after all these months he's finally won and Dean is completely his, he feels it in every cell of his stolen body--Crowley reaches down and helps him to his feet, then leads him away from the cold stone room into warmth and light. The wall reforms behind them, decorated with gold and Tiffany sconces, priceless artwork, and a cabinet laden with antique figurines. Soft music fills the air, and clean, expensive trousers and a linen shirt form on Dean's body, replacing his torn and filthy jeans and t-shirt. Supple leather boots take the place of his old, cracked ones, and all the dirt and blood disappear from his skin. His wounds heal, the stench of Hell disappears from him, and he's remade before his King's eyes.

*****

Dean feels everything shift inside him. The guilt vanishes. The pain fades to nothing. Strength fills his muscles and he looks down at himself, then rolls up the sleeve of his shirt to reveal the Mark of Cain gleaming in the soft, warm light.

He feels...whole.

Good.

Right.

A tiny part of him mourns the loss of his old self, but he shoves that aside and walks over to a mirror on the wall to examine his face. His eyes remain green, but he knows they're a lie.

It doesn't bother him.

In the reflection, he sees Crowley approach from behind him, and turns with a twisted smile on his face. "So, am I what you wanted now?"

"It 's a start." The King of Hell is obviously pleased, and Dean is...happy about that.

Huh.

He still feels like himself, but more as well. Not just dark and demonic, but like he's become what he was destined to be from the moment he sold his soul for Sam.

At the thought of his brother, a tiny of pang of pain hits him, but he can and does ignore it. Sam's the past. Hunting, the family business, all done with. 

He's a demon.

He's the heir of Cain.

Literally.

Knowledge long hidden unfurls in his mind. He and Sam are the descendants of Cain and Abel, through a thousand thousand generations, to Campbells and Winchesters, and a mating blessed by Heaven and Hell.

One bound to Michael, one to Lucifer, but was the twist planned? That Dean meant for Michael is stronger from Cain, the dark and demonic brother, and Sam who was Lucifer's perfect vessel is actually more like Abel?

One truth emerges, and he murmurs, "Sam and I will end up fighting after all."

Crowley grins and claps his hands. "As planned all along, just not as angelic vessels."

Dean narrows his eyes. "Sam's human. He has no chance of winning."

Hell's King just shrugs and gestures to the table laden with food and wine. "We're in no rush either. Hungry?"

He realizes he is, and the food smells delicious. Tastes delicious as well, as they eat their fill, and Dean listens as Crowley lays out his plans. Or, at least, some of them. He is the King of Lies, after all, even if that title was inherited along with his others from the original liar.

Dean listens, absorbs, wonders, but doesn't question. Not yet. There's still too much to feel out, to explore, to understand.

But he has time.

He has all the time in Heaven, Hell and on Earth.

Leaning back in his chair, stomach comfortably full, though food isn't necessary, he sips his wine, wondering if he can get a beer in Hell, and finds himself relaxing for the first time since awakening as a demon.

He watches as Crowley pushes back from the table and stretches out his legs in fine black wool slacks, loosens his red silk tie and eyes him with dark interest.

Feeling a wicked pleasure slowly unspool in his gut, Dean smirks and sets down his empty glass. "So, wanna fuck?"

Crowley snorts a laugh and gestures over his shoulder to an open door leading to what is obviously a bedroom. "Dean Winchester, a willing bottom?"

"Who said I'm the bottom?"

Another laugh, dark, rich, and kind of nasty and Crowley rises to his feet. "Sweetheart, I'm the King of Hell. I don't care who you are, I don't bend over for anyone. Wouldn't look good."

Dean shrugs languid shoulders. "Who has to know?"

"I'd know and you'd know, and, please, Dean. You're a bottom, a power bottom and probably a bossy one, but I've known for years why you've overcompensated by fucking every woman you could get into your bed."

Once, that comment would have pissed off Dean, made him uncomfortable, brought back too many painful memories of his last time in Hell, and killed his libido, but he's not that Dean anymore. As his cock twitches, he casually presses the heel of one hand to it, sees the interest flare in Crowley's eyes, then rises to stroll into the bedroom, stripping off his shirt as he goes.

The bed is big, elegant, covered in expensive silk and cotton sheets and blankets, a dozen cushions scattered over the head. There's a fire banked in another fireplace, putting off enough heat to make the room comfortable. As he tosses the shirt on a bench at the end of the bed, he sits next to it to remove his boots, and sees what's probably the most famous portrait in the world on the wall. A dark laugh bursts from him.

"Is that real?"

"All the art is real. The best forgers are in Hell, after all," Crowley replies as he closes the door behind him and starts to undress.

Skimming out of his trousers, Dean slides naked beneath the softest sheets he's ever felt and wriggles down into the pillows. "Didn't think Hell was supposed to be this comfortable."

"It may be a prison for wicked souls, but do you really think the King of Hell is going to suffer?" Crowley joins him, leaning over him and running one firm hand down Dean's chest. A flare of pleasure and need goes straight to Dean's groin.

It's dark and takes his breath away, as does the first kiss from his sovereign, soon to be his lover.

Reaching up to wrap his arms around Crowley's neck, Dean drags him into a deeper, hungrier kiss.

*****

Crowley awakens from a sex-stupid slumber, to find Dean propped on one elbow watching him. "That's creepy."

Dean smirks and sits up, pushing back against the headboard. Crowley follows him, pressing a heated kiss to his open mouth. "So, morning breath is no longer a problem?"

"Being king has some perks."

"And yet my ass feels like it's been thoroughly fucked. Oh, wait, it was." The smirk remains on that young, handsome face, and Crowley chuckles before sliding from the bed and wrapping a velvet robe around himself.

"You're not king."

"Consort? Is that the right term?" Dean doesn't seem bothered by it, as he rises and stretches, all golden nudity and muscles, and Crowley's mouth goes dry.

"I suppose," he drawls, eyes hooded, fresh lust filling him as he slides his hands into his pockets and wonders how that mouth will feel around his stirring dick.

Undisturbed by his nudity or his gradually swelling cock, Dean strolls over to him, then past him into the marble and gold outfitted bathroom. "So, while I'm all for fucking ourselves into comas, what are your real plans, Crowley?" he calls back as he turns on the water from four different showerheads in a shower big enough to hold a dozen people.

Crowley appears behind him, urging him beneath the spray and throwing off his robe to join him. "Be a good consort and blow me, and maybe I'll tell you."

"Oh, you're planning to tell me anyway, or you wouldn't have been as patient with me, waiting for me to become just what you've wanted all along."

"And they said your brother got all the brains and you the brawn," Crowley replies darkly, and Dean grins nastily and slips to his knees, his hands gliding down wet skin as his lips wrap around the tip of Crowley's cock.

He isn't at all surprised when, after he comes with a weak gasp, the King of Hell spills all his plans for war with Heaven as easily as he spilled his hot cum down Dean's throat.

As he brings himself off beneath the perpetually hot water and beneath Crowley's equally hot eyes, Dean finds he has absolutely no qualms about going to war.

After all, he's always been a good soldier.

~~~~~

Crowley awakens to find Dean watching him from beneath hooded, hungry eyes.

Today, their plans of the last several months will hopefully begin to come to fruition, but they have time before the first assault on Heaven. Before he can make the request, Dean shoots him a wolfish grin and dives beneath the sheets to wrap his hot mouth around Crowley's dick.

Folding his hands beneath his head, Crowley bucks his hips, fucking down Dean's well-conditioned throat, and thinks, it's good to be the king.

End

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Art for "King and Consort"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3141920) by [Gryph](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gryph/pseuds/Gryph)




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